Last night, not yet ready for bed, I retired to the darkness of the back porch to drink in the cool night air and fill eyes with stars. Crickets and frogs competed with a rowdy gathering next door. A bank of white haze lined the northern horizon, soft glowing underbelly illuminated by city lights. A flash of line in the glow, straight and true as if a meteor, but slow, fat, and soft as a finger stroke through atmospheric foam. It was gone and I blinked and wondered if it had happened at all. Then the next one streaked nearby and then another and another, all the while moving westward. Finally a Pleides sized brush described a white line from the western horizon to overhead, a mighty white headlight casting back the night. Intensified, broadened, and then a shifting and diffusion until only a dark red puddle remained, floating above, punctured by stars. Fade. Retreat. Back to the glowing northern sky. A few minutes passed and it started again. I walked down the road to the field's edge and above the aurora blossomed in long streaks of white and red from the northern horizon. Pulsed and undulated. Shifted and glowed. A grand majestry of shows. I felt compelled to share it, to knock on doors, stop cars, dial numbers, drag tv saturated eyes into the darkness and wait for the moment when sight returned and heavens opened before them. Instead I stood and stared. As the show retreated I also made my silent way back. The party continued next door, lights and sound blaring, and I wondered how many nights I have sat locked in artificial light seeking entertainment while outside and above the night sky danced and burned in silence.

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